


Who Fell In Love First?

by KaraStorm



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Experimental Style, First Kiss, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-25 16:59:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9831503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaraStorm/pseuds/KaraStorm
Summary: Who fell in love first, Kirk or Spock? Writing prompt I decided to answer with an experimental piece.Between Kirk and Spock respect and love are a given from the beginning. But to acknowledge love is the beginning of a full existence.COMPLETE





	1. Feed 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This piece is intended to be read as part of my feed at karajstorm dot tumblr dot com. Go there, then click on 'read my fanfic' and select this fic and scroll to the bottom.
> 
> The full piece uses tags to recreate the feed as I was envisioning it, interleaved with original screencap content and reblogs, mostly random so they echo the story serendipitously.

Spock doesn’t stand at attention, or let me correct that, if he’s standing at attention, there’s trouble. He stands with an unself-conscious noble bearing. It was probably the first thing I noticed about him. In a line of officers trying hard to please their new captain, he stood as one possessed by the space he was in, by the ship.

* * *

I mistakenly believed the captain to be an emotional being. I was misled by the way he smiled and touched, by his expressions of urgency when lives were at stake. I have since come to understand that he keeps his emotions tightly bound up. What he reveals is released to expression under conscious control. This is a finer sort of control than any Vulcan could sustain long term.

* * *

The captain has one primary emotional weakness. His command and his ship are more important than his own life. He will fiercely defend his right to this weakness. The only time he is impatient with others is when this right is questioned. This does not stop me from calling it into question, as circumstances necessitate. I have no desire to cause the captain emotional disturbance, but it is my duty to point out there is a limit to his right to put himself in harms way when there are options.

* * *

Spock prefers to be alone. He’s alone now at oh two hundred. He’s in the lab reconfiguring equipment. I am sweating onto my uniform shirt which is tied around my shoulders, shedding the residual heat after an hour-long run on the treadmill. I should shower. I should get to sleep. I’m thinking about him there alone and doing nothing.

* * *

When Spock is reluctant to follow orders I am stronger for it. The ship is stronger for it. No one at Starfleet Academy, no mentor in leadership, no one has ever told me this could be the case. When Spock pushes back against a plan multiple times, even in front of the crew, I’m challenged and bolstered inwardly, not weakened outwardly. The universe is going to push back against my plans. Spock is the harbinger of that. The trick is to know it’s going to happen, optimism be damned, to make what’s available work, even if it means making a miracle out of it. Spock will eventually fall in line, no matter how anathema to his logic my orders are. I just have to get him to that point. And always keep in mind, for myself, that it’s not personal for him. Or, check that. It’s personal, but not in a human way. He wants a rightness to the world around him. The desire for that is personal.

* * *

I pull the captain aside, despite the urgency of time. I suggest that the security team is capable of adequately handling the situation. He need not beam down and lead the team. He doesn’t become impatient or express frustration with me. Not this time. He looks away, watches weapons being distributed. “I’ll be careful, Spock.” These are not words for the first officer of this vessel. The tone is not official. He’s figured out it’s personal. He confirms this by patting my arm as he walks away. Strangely, almost emptily, there is no shame. There is a drive to be released to return to my bridge duties, to do my part to recover the landing party before they’ve even departed. It’s all I am allowed to do. I am laid bare. And I am illogically relieved by it.

* * *

I’m expressly relieved to see the transporter room appear around me. Injured crew are helped off the platform and into the arms and floating gurneys of the medical staff. No one’s dead. A few are vocal in victory, a few congratulate their captain and I return a nod and a reserved smile. I’m relieved to be solidly here in the transporter room for the wrong reason, and I can’t not admit that to myself. It’s not these lives, the mission, or even this ship. It’s that I cannot bear the thought of bringing Spock that kind of pain. It’s my fault he feels.

* * *

Impatient with the process. Impatient with the simple need for it. The captain sits on the edge of a diagnostic bed while a laceration is cleaned and bandaged on his arm. He asks questions of me, wants to know every detail of the bridge crew’s actions and thoughts while we coordinated with the landing party. This is what makes him an effective, exceptional leader. He knows what others will do before they know they will do it. I deeply respect this. And I am an unbiased reciter of events both positive and negative. The doctor grows angry. Tells the captain to behave or else. Kirk quiets, head lowered, face set. I continue describing events, the pleased surprise of his officers at his successful strategy. He doesn’t gloat often. Over chess at times, an activity which ramps up his competitive emotions in ways I find illuminating, such that this gloating is a part of knowing him. Unlike Dr. McCoy, who seems to live for the opportunity to gloat in a way that gets revenge on others. “And you, Mr. Spock?” I raise a brow because the captain expects it. “Captain?” He smiles knowingly, face younger by several years, wiped of duty. “Think I had it in me?” This is new territory, and I wish the overly observant Dr. McCoy were not present. “I am learning to dampen my expectations, Captain. In light of their being not useful.” This isn’t the answer he wants. He wants to be charming and that requires a certain kind of counter conversation. I see it now that he has fallen silent again and watches the wound being closed with a protoplaser. I want to recover his smile. I estimate I will be inept in the attempt. I wait beside him so I may return to the bridge with him. It’s all I can do.

* * *

The captain moves through the officers and crew of this ship as if they are all are an extension of himself. No matter how many times I’ve observed it, I continue to be fascinated. He works off apparent instinct that I know is in actuality learned and fine tuned. I am envious of how effortlessly he incorporates this into his social DNA. He offers special attention to a few, assurances of the pleasure that they and he are on this journey together. He’ll do it to a few others next time. They will remember it for a long time. I know because I overhear them when they do not think it possible. I wait for him so that we may walk through the ship together to check on second shift. He never tires of this. He is made of them.

* * *

This responsibility makes it hard to breathe. It’s oh two hundred again. Something about this time of artificial ship’s night. What have I done? I never resort to asking myself this, but I am doing it now, again. James Kirk wasn’t going to commit to anyone’s emotional needs. He’s gone half a galaxy out of the way to avoid anything of the sort, careful always to avoid giving anyone time to really fall for the actual James Kirk, whoever that is. I’m good at this, picking lovers who fit this mold. I can spot them the first time they look over at me, look up coyly at me in the way that communicates they are thinking exactly the same thing. James Kirk is not the commitment type. I’m maybe not proud of it, even if I’m proud of the skill of it. Why then does the weight of this responsibility threaten to crush me?

* * *

Spock is more than my right hand, more than my entire right arm. He’s my living interface to the ship, the coordination of the crew, and the meaning of the overwhelming streams of data coming through the sensors. I prize him. I don’t resist savoring his presence. I don’t resist anticipating being near him. With any other officer I would consider it an unhealthy emotion to cultivate. I imagine at times that I sense something similar in him. Or I need to believe I do. Maybe I do that to avoid feeling I am out of line. He’s a world to explore, just like all the others out here. Just seeing Spock across the bridge reminds me why I am out here.

* * *

The Captain puts his hands behind his back as he approaches me, mimicking my pose. “Mr. Spock. Status on the astronomical readings?” I do not hold back on technical explanations. He understands far more than most in his position. He does not mind needing to ask for explanations. He’s a seeker, open and curious. His eyes grow shiny when the discussion becomes interesting to him, as if he is responding physically to learning. “How’s the probe holding up so close to the radiation source? Mr. Scott’s modifications are working?” The captain continues making conversation, holding my attention on him. I do not mind it. On the contrary, I too am a seeker of knowledge and he is a more interesting subject than a gravity-well distorted pulsar.


	2. Feed 2

They are beautiful. They are always beautiful. A distress call, difficult dignitaries, and excessive strain on the machinery of the ship, but it has resulted in early authorization for shore leave. The captain's dress uniform is aglow. It wraps his all too human physique in a package which showcases his dedication and achievement. It is no wonder they gather. He is a flame. The reception goes into the night. The young women are increasingly too young or too inebriated. The captain bows out of their introductions quickly, patronizingly. The peach haired woman from earlier has her hand on the captain's arm, hooked around his elbow as if appropriating him as her escort. I want to believe the captain is tolerating the touch with great effort. He appears relaxed only in the way alcohol induces it. I am still speaking with the chief of engineering from the Lexington regarding warp core warm restarts, pretending it takes all of my attention.

* * *

I had a storybook as a child. A boy visiting an alien world tames a funny little creature colored in rainbow scales. He tames it by figuring out what it likes to eat. The creature doesn't behave like a dog or a cat, the pets the boy has at home. But he gets used to its oddnesses, discovers the oddnesses make sense for the world it is on. Then the boy and his family leave. The rocket ship shrinks to a dot in a midnight blue sky. The creature waits. The creature starves.

* * *

I was dutiful under Captain Pike, more dutiful than now. But, in truth, there is a fuzziness to the application of logic needed to make a comparison. I put no effort into loyalty now. In contrast to before when my duty was akin to my meditative regime, practiced, full of rigorous intent. I try to hypothesize how my life will be after James Kirk. Logic slips away in the face of the initial assumption and I can reach no conclusion. I can barely dwell on the premise. How did I let logic and emotion become inextricably intertwined in this manner? Do full Vulcans do this with certain topic areas, or is it just me? Logically, does it matter if it's just me?

* * *

I put on a front for the planetary ministers. I put on a front for the rescued dignitaries. My desire to pretend is growing fragile. It will soon snap. Peaches and Cream, as I think of her, smells wonderful. She's wearing some kind of engineered scent. I breathe it deeply. It's like the alcohol, a cheap shortcut. She's clingier than expected, perhaps worried about the younger competition, who imply they would be wanton or coy or innocent, whatever their hormones tell them minute to minute. I put a hand over Peaches' hand in a reassuring gesture and sense her relax beside me. We understand each other at least at this one small level.

* * *

"Mr. Spock." The captain stops. Uncharacteristically seems to be searching for words. I wonder if he's trying to articulate something about the mission, confirm something comprehended since the reception. He looks away. His brows are furrowed. I estimate the light is low here for him and wonder if he believes I cannot see his expression. It is oh three hundred and twenty five local time. We have encountered each other outside the hotel on a boardwalk which cuts a straight line across a sinuous lake edge between clusters of cityscape. If the wind were not still, it would be cold. "Want to walk?" He asks. His tone is one of giving up, annoyed with himself. I nod. We fall in step. The boardwalk is loud under our boots.

* * *

Curiosity is a weakness meticulously cultivated in Vulcan children. I ache due to this weakness. I am curious why the captain is out here instead of with his date from the reception. I cannot ask. The question itself would speak for me in ways I am incapable of controlling.

* * *

I've had too much to drink, my mouth is pasty, my brain stuck on one track. I want another drink. Ahead just offshore, floor sitting level with the shimmering water, is a small glassed in bar half full of fashionable patrons flickering in candlelight. Romantic. Apart from everything. I tip my head at the narrow dock that forms a walkway out to it. Spock nods. He is equitable. With me he is equitable. With everyone else he is exacting to the point of distraction. I order a drink, a double. If I get drunk enough, will Spock get exacting with his captain?

* * *

Lack of responsibility has opened up space for the captain to brood. He sits hunched, tries to look out at the lake. Even basked in the simple candlelight as we are, the glass is too reflective. He keeps looking away. Looks back again as if maybe his ability to see has changed. This particular aspect of restlessness is a novel one for him. I sense defeat, and this is also novel. Whatever this is, he is choosing not to fight.

* * *

The ice has melted and the scotch has become watery smoke. Spock sits across from me as if at his duty station, observant, patient. I can't put words to any of what is consuming me. "Perhaps Dr. McCoy?" My logical Vulcan. I shake my head. There are a row of lights about half a klick away, rocking mesmerizingly. Boats at dock I assume. I want to be stone sober. I feel like I'm almost there.

* * *

The captain emerges from his thoughts, straightens. His gentle smile is calculated entirely for its effect on me. "It's okay, Spock." I know the captain detests any worry for him. And that dislike and his pride could constitute the entire energy behind his apparent recovery. He has abandoned his drink which no longer collects condensate on the outside of the glass. He stares past my right ear when he's not looking at me directly. His attention has wholly shifted in my direction. He is burying the source of the crisis. My curiosity overcomes me. "May I ask what is the matter?"


	3. Feed 3

I am decreed to always be strong and that’s as good an excuse as any. “Captain?” I shake my head. The candlelight warms and animates Spock’s face, alien, exotic, fondly familiar. His dress uniform collects the flame’s glow at the edges of the sheer blue where the fabric gathers. He looks good. Narrow and solid. Affection buzzes pleasantly in me. I don’t want him trying to help. I want him to feel brilliant in all ways. I certainly don’t want him to be made awkwardly uncomfortable for my sake. “It’s okay. Let it go.” I look down at the remains of my drink to hide my lie. I parted from Peaches because the charade had become untenable and I couldn’t bear to hold to it anymore. But here I am, holding to it.

* * *

To meet my duty to a concept I formally disavow I overcome decades of propriety. “I would prefer to assist. If I can.” He nods with a forgiving smile. “You don’t need to, Spock.” He is doting on me. He is confident that he knows me in total. My reaction to this is complex, overly personal bordering on insulted. I put my reaction aside, turn recent events around in myriad ways in case I have overlooked a possible explanation. There is nothing of note in my memory. Rather standard missions dealt with by a skilled commander and his crew. Heat rises in me. I need his assistance to assist him. If he cuts me off from help, I will fail him. He very well knows this.

* * *

Spock has moved through solicitous and tentatively reaching out to land at Vulcan angry. I’m glad I feel sober. I’m somewhat glad we’re in public. I look from one of his brown eyes to the other. His voice is precise. “You refer to me as friend. You sometimes use the term brother. I do not understand the meaning of those words.” I open my mouth. Close it. I sound as soothing as possible. “You’re right.” “Perhaps you can elucidate your situation, in that case.” Demanding. Right on the heels of my concession. Spock’s expression is unwavering. I hold up my hands. “Checkmate. All right?” This throws him off his anger. He nods crookedly. Now he looks wounded instead. He has way too much at the surface as if he’s the one who’s been drinking. As if he’s the one who’s been torturing himself with doubts.

* * *

I take a deep breath. My command dress uniform pulls snug around me, hampering getting air. I am teetering, close to violating my own strict practices of command, my own hard-learned rules about relationships. I balance there. I have to resort to base courage, the kind that resulted in the medals I’m wearing. I find it darkly amusing that I need to. This is what James Kirk is made of. Fear of getting too close.

* * *

“Spock. I’m sorry.” No human can say these words more sincerely than the captain does. “Of course, Captain.” He frowns. He wants his given name. I concede it easily. “Jim.” He nods, looks away, takes that small victory. His gaze narrows and I see the commander in him come forth. “You insist I discuss my emotional problems and you can’t drop rank.” I hold his hazel gaze, colorless in the candlelight. “You are my captain in all ways at all times. You do not cease to be that for me simply because we are off the ship or off duty.” The captain sits back. Sits up straighter. This is a new idea for him. He nods slowly, mouth relaxes. “Okay. Fair enough.”

* * *

The captain shakes his head. His pose exudes defeat again. “I respect you. A lot. It makes this difficult.” “I do not understand that definition of respect.” The left corner of the captain’s lip rises. “Yes, you do. You keep using ‘Captain’ with me.” I raise a brow. Indeed. “I see.” He sips at the remains of his drink, waves the glass at the bar for another. He waits for it to arrive. It is sweating. It leaves clinging watery streaks on the table top. The waiter departs without speaking. The captain sips, considers the glass suspended in his fingertips. “I respect you too much to close the gap between us. Without heed, especially.” He puts the drink down, raises his eyes to mine. “Your Vulcan sensibilities. My many duties that must come first.” He rubs his chin. Frowns thoughtfully. “Actually. Those used to be the reasons.”

* * *

“You know what. I don’t know anything. I’m terrible at this.” The captain holds a breath in. His voice falls quieter. “I respect you. And I care for you. More deeply than I do for anything else in this universe. Including the ship.” I have seen the captain face a fleet of hostile vessels with shields down without a hesitation of physical movement. But in the second and a half before he binds them between his teeth, his lips are quivering. “Jim?” He lowers his face, so when he looks at me again, he is looking up. I listen. I keep listening to the ensuing silence.

* * *

I push my drink around. I listen to the communal hum of bright conversation around us, the tiny roar of the candle on the table. “Do you know how intimidating you can be?” I ask. Spock considers this as if considering the chess board mid-game. “I have noted this with others, Jim. But have not observed it impacting you.” I want to down my entire drink and let it burn and then numb me. My chest is knotting up. “You are intimidating,” I say. I’m stalling. I’m giving up things that seem personal and difficult to reveal, but aren’t. I can’t tell if he’s falling for it.

* * *

We are playing emotional chess. And he no longer gives off an air of struggle. And it is my move. We stare at each other. I am out of my depth. I have been abandoned again to flounder in my ineptitude. I do not allow myself to react emotionally. It is merely a strategy of his I must combat with my own. “Indeed. That was a deflection on your part.” He looks away, face set. I can read his intent in every line of him. Still your move, Commander.

* * *

Spock is as calm as ever. His great mind works behind his eyes. He starts to speak and stops. Twice he does this. Although no one else in the bar is watching us I am warmed by a surge of protective instinct. I want to take him away, shelter him. I can’t bear him risking the loss of even an ounce of that epic Vulcan pride. “Spock.” I cut off his struggles. “Maybe we should go.” He glares at me, eyes like that statue he keeps meditative company with. “We will continue to talk?” This isn’t like him. “Yes, we will. Come on.”

* * *

It is biting cold outside. The wind slithers beneath my dress uniform, stealing core body heat away in its relentless passing. I follow him down the floating dock, a figure of sheer gold edges and dark silhouette against the city lights. The cold is abrupt enough I have difficulty processing it as such. My nerves react beyond my ability to counter them. At the boardwalk, the captain raises his chin in the direction of the hotel in a posture of assessment. He turns to me. His left arm goes around my back and he presses close with casual familiarity. He tosses open his communicator with his other hand. The chirrups cut through the wind as if it isn’t there. I’m alive only on the sliver of me that is pressed against him. “Enterprise, this is the captain. Two to beam up.”


	4. Feed 4

The captain turns up the heat in his quarters, hangs up his dress uniform top and tugs a worn black t-shirt on. He moves with ease, face and body relaxed. He pours himself a tumbler of ruby liquid that spills volatile vapors around us. He considers a moment, and pours another which he pushes to the corner of the desk nearest me. "Have a drink, Mr. Spock." He sits, puts his boots up on the desk, ankles crossed. I lift the tumbler and sip it. I remain standing. I wait.

* * *

I sip my drink, cradle it on my palm resting on my thigh, rock back to the limit of the desk chair. My mind is completely clear. I may have to substantially pick up the pace of my drinking. He's not sitting down. He knows I'd prefer it. I consider what I might say to bridge his understanding to something inside of me that I haven't fully acknowledged. A pit opens before me and it requires all of my courage to continue to stare into it.

* * *

"Suddenly you don't mind being made uncomfortable by human failings, Spock?" Spock puts the drink down with a clunk of heavy glass on fabricated surface. I watch him bank his renewed anger. I breathe in all the way, even past the point where my chest feels tight despite shedding the dress uniform. "All right," I say, nodding slowly. "Before you lose your composure. I'm scared to be closer to you. Scared from so many aspects I'm not even sure I can identify them all for you." Spock stares. He slides over to the guest chair, lowers himself onto it. He sits with back softly bent, shoulders rounded.

* * *

The captain puts his feet down, leans forward, keeps talking. "You wanted to hear it. Now you have. That's pretty much the heart of it." I look around his quarters. "I have not noticed that I concern you in that manner, Captain." "Not you, Spock. I frighten me. My spectacular history of failure frightens me." He sits back with his usual air of confidence. "I'm going to royally screw this up. And I have it pretty good right now." His voice becomes reverent. "I have the command I want and I have a brother and friend by my side." He bites his lips again and holds them that way as he raises his drink.

* * *

I project a curious expression at the captain. He is so certain I am a party to his assumptions. He snorts lightly into his tumbler. "Spock," he says with a pained smile. "I know the signs. And your anger confirms it." I look away, feel my ears and neck flushing. "Oh, my Vulcan friend." He takes a gulp of his drink, stares at it while swallowing hard. When the liquid catches the light, it is a jewel in his fingers. He stares at it a long time. "My God, I'm seriously considering it." His eyes widen and he shakes his head. He puts his free hand over his kneecap, arm tight to his thigh and sits that way, holding to himself.

* * *

"I've been out here in space so long I've gone through myself and out the other side." I sound ridiculously wistful. Spock sits unassumingly. Not angular and solid. A simple presence. The lighting in my quarters isn't candlelight on a lake, but it has its own romance. It has the romance of memory, of shared stress and companionship. And it highlights his midnight black hair with a blue matching the dress uniform he still wears. I down the rest of my drink. The legendary Captain Kirk's gut is feathery and useless to him.

* * *

With every turn of my tainted logic, I am hollowed out more completely. I ache to steeple my fingers before me, rest my mind, put the present aside so that logic can emerge without the painful entanglement of emotion. But such a purely Vulcan action would separate us. So I sit with my hands loosely intertwined in my lap. It occurs to me that he may be waiting for me. "I do not know what words are appropriate at this time, Jim." His lips wrinkle. "Don't feel badly. I'm a wreck over here." I raise a thoughtful brow. "That is illogically reassuring to hear."

* * *

Spock is not equipped to communicate this way. He's already too far out of his depth. "Are you all right?" Spock looks up with his usual steadily curious mien, and I am unspeakably relieved. "Yes." His voice is warm rough silk. I smile the smile that only emerges for him. I sigh through my nose. "You willing to take this risk?" His eyes drift away, his shoulders come forward. "I require better knowledge of precisely what you are proposing." "That sounds like my Spock." His brows go up. We are falling back into our usual interaction and the terror is letting me slip free.

* * *

"I'm proposing no barriers between us." With these words I begin exuding sweat into my t-shirt. "Don't get me wrong. We are really close, you and me. Closer than I ever thought possible. Even in Fleet. But we still keep aloof. Both of us do this. Because we both need something from being together and we both need something from being apart." I push my empty tumbler around. "I guess what happened is I discovered my reasons for keeping apart have become invalid." Spock is so very present there across the desk. If I imagine getting up and touching him, my whole body starts to vibrate.

* * *

"Explain. Please." It is my turn to experience the uncertainty that was gripping my captain minutes ago. He nods as if we are in a conference. "I trust myself now to keep my duties and my personal life in their proper places. I didn't used to. And we've melded, what, eleven, twelve times? Your Vulcan sensibilities are an aside as a result. But please correct me if I'm wrong." He works his lips with his teeth. "The last few melds. . ." He looks away. "I'm pretty sure you needed them at some deep level. I didn't say anything because I'm flattered and Great Bird knows I'd like to be more to you." The captain's voice is reassuringly factual. I find the air in the room to be too thin, when in reality it is ridiculously rich in oxygen. He doesn't seem to notice my struggle. "That's what I mean by the reasons becoming invalid. For me. That is."


	5. Feed 5

He has become wistful. This emotion makes the captain even more golden. He speaks as though from a distance. "I wonder sometimes. The melds. Do they bring us closer together or keep us apart?" "Yes." He smiles, almost laughs. The more I behave as I have in past moments of high camaraderie, the more relaxed the captain is. He is pleased to the core to receive an illogical response from me. I have thought this through already, long ago. "Melds are both a means of knowing very deeply. But it is a means of knowing that satisfies you such that you need not seek out other means of intimacy." The captain fidgets with his empty tumbler. "You've been paying attention when we meld." "I must. I have to keep you safe."

* * *

The door buzzes. Doctor McCoy enters. "Didn't know you were back on the ship, Jimbo. Something up?" "We got caught on a cold walk a little too far from the hotel." "Not like you to plan that poorly." The captain smiles with his eyes. "What poor planning? I brought a starship." McCoy looks at each of us. It is perhaps the intentional posture of welcome that communicates itself to him. "I should leave you two alone. I see." Another look between us. "Let me know if you need anything." Quiet settles on the room. The captain pours us both more alcohol. "We're transparent as hell." I pull my vaporous tumbler closer but do not sip from it. "Based on my acute overhearing of comments when we are on base, half of Starfleet Command suspects we are already more involved." This gives the captain pause. "How long's that been going on?" "It began soon after you took command." He tilts his head, sips his drink. "No hope for that then."

* * *

"You never said anything. About the rumors." The captain speaks, then looks up. He is so human. Bulky and soft, compact and mercurial. I have grown more than accustomed to this humanness. He is the opposite of T'Pring. By every possible measure. "I did not see a reason to distress you with the information if you were unaware." His brows rise up. "Distress?" I am illogically protective of this past decision. I say nothing. His expression softens. It projects affection. "Were you afraid how I'd react?"

* * *

“It’s okay.” I don’t need to push Spock on this. “Command’s misunderstanding may have been useful, keeping them off my back when I needed to disobey orders to rescue you.” Spock is looking me over. His mind seems elsewhere than my words. The idea of that great mind assessing me as a potential intimate ignites me. I am the ship’s warp core. Does he imagine us. And if he does, how does he imagine us. 

* * *

The captain stares at the overhead. "I rebel innately against this kind of commitment. It's as if I have nothing left to spare, and anything else, any _one_ else, threatens my solemn duties. Don't be in denial, please, Spock, my friend. It happens every time. It seems." "You have already forgiven me for my far more significant shortcomings in the area of personal relations." "I love who you are and that you are beside me." "That is a superior way to put it."

* * *

"There is no other being in the galaxy I trust the way I trust you." I'm thinking aloud now. Not like me. "And we're so close it's probably pointless to worry about whether we're closer." "Logical." I smile, but I can feel it's pained. "I can't mess this up. This life is everything to me." Spock's voice is low and it wavers with awkward discomfort. "I am more aware of your inner thoughts and motives than your previous intimates were capable of being." I'm teetering. And if I fall on the edge rather than commit, it's going to sever me in half. "You're going to keep forgiving me. Even when I do something spectacularly hurtful to you for no good reason?" "I am perfectly aware that you are human, in the philosophical sense of that word."

* * *

He is fighting me rather than something internal that I cannot assist with. And here I, the Vulcan, am arguing for additional emotion between us. Or perhaps that is impossible. I lack sufficient data. I already harbor more emotion than I thought possible. I already submit to more vulnerability than I thought I could tolerate. My estimates regarding this will continue to be faulty. It is unacceptable. I cannot come to an understanding of myself without him.

* * *

I’m chilled and hot. I can’t possibly drink fast enough to get drunk enough to get up and approach him. I am relieved beyond imagining by the openness we have managed. Despite the way it has left me yearning in ways I don’t recognize. But really. Am I going to sit here and force a Vulcan who suppresses his emotions, suppresses his every physical reaction to stimulation internal and external, am I going to force him to come to me? He is sipping his drink with a deeply inward expression. I am now consciously stalling, allowing the barriers to remain there between us. Once they are down we’ll be free of them for good. I ache for that release.

* * *

The captain's thoughts are manifesting in his physical presence. Indecision is unfamiliar to him and experiencing it makes him question his assumptions about himself. I can see all of this play across his face, across his posture as he sits hulking over his half empty tumbler. To be human is to be uncertain. I let him seek his way for a time. "Jim?"

* * *

I stand up because I can't be the man who doesn't stand up. I stop beside his chair. The side of my knee bumps the side of his and holds there. The room is warm but that's not the reason I'm overheating inside my thin shirt. He holds his drink in mid air, slowly stretches to set it down. His face tips up, tracking me. It is tinged a deep green around the edges. He's blushing or he's also overwrought. Either makes me warmer still, makes my stomach flutter. I take his face between my hands, insert my fingers into the short hair at his nape, my thumbs slide over his ears. A twinge spasms through him. He reaches up for my hands and I almost release him. His hands slide down my arms instead of taking hold of my wrists. They slide down my sides to my hips, rest there. It's just his fingertips, one palm of one hand on my hip bone. But I am lit up by it, reacting electrically up and down my core. It's as if I've never been touched. I bend slowly toward him. The suspense is rendering me sensitive to the fabric of everything. There is no membrane between myself and the universe. His eyes half close. His lips part. I can't deny that kind of invitation. I put my lips on his. I want to sink into him, but draw up his lips gently instead, press them down against his teeth, wet them. Taste him. Draw the hunger up out of him to keep mine company. His hands are on my ribs, pulling to steer me around the chair to stand between his knees, which he clamps around mine. He's pulling me forward, holding firm. I release his mouth and look down at him to sink into his gaze. I have never been more alive than this moment. And I am still utterly terrified.


End file.
